


Waiting On The Morning Sun

by spicy_taratata, yourfavalien



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Did we mention angst?, Drinking, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicy_taratata/pseuds/spicy_taratata, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfavalien/pseuds/yourfavalien
Summary: It’s been four months since Civil War, and still, Tony can feel the sharp press of the shield on his sternum. He can’t work, can’t sleep, can’t function, his mind too burdened with thoughts of that day, and more importantly, Steve.Halfway across the world, Steve is cold. Apologies lay heavy on his tongue, but what good is guilt if you can’t atone for your crime?One slip up is all it takes for everything to come crashing right back down again.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 132





	1. Intro

O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45474/o-captain-my-captain


	2. Tony

The days seemed to mix together in an achingly tiresome blend of colours. Staying awake felt like a never-ending battle, but falling asleep was completely out of question. It had been four months, and yet no amount of coffee, tinkering or loud music, all things that used to take the edge off of a particularly hard day, could banish the thoughts from his head.

Well, there was one thing, though it only worked half the time. After a moment’s hesitation, Tony decided to roll the dice and stumbled into the kitchen. He hesitantly opened one of the cabinets, eyes flickering over each bottle until he found the one he had been looking for. His eyes darkened at the sticky note covered in Natasha’s illegible handwriting that was tacked to the bottle. He grabbed the alcohol with unneeded force, aggressively crumbling the note. Nat had made her choice, and if she wasn’t here for him to yell at, in hopes of soothing the fiery need for revenge in his chest, stealing her expensive, blacklisted in the USA, 48% alcohol content vodka would have to do.

Tony made a beeline for the couch, ignoring the different security camera footages currently displayed on the TV. Lazily kicking his feet up on the coffee table littered with greasy fingerprints, spilled wine, knife markings and cigarette burns, Tony unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a swig. Despite his anger, he had to give Natasha credit; she had damn good taste in vodka. His eyes flickered towards the footage in front of him, and he mockingly saluted the screen with the bottle before taking another pull. Wincing a bit as the burning sensation finally hit, he unceremoniously turned off the screen and rubbed his temples, already sensing the start of a blistering headache.

“Shit, Nat,” he murmured, words slightly slurred, “the bottle’s almost done. That was quick.”

His chest twisted with the familiar feelings of guilt, sadness and despair at the reminder of the sister he’d lost without ever really having in the first place, despite his best efforts. He swallowed thickly, teeth clenched, grip tight on the vodka before pressing it up to his lips to try and stave off the confusion and hurt that often set in on days like these.

He closed his eyes and could barely breathe as the truth sunk in for the millionth time: Natasha had chosen to follow _him_ , despite everything he had done to Tony. Tony took another long swig of his drink, welcoming the borderline painful burning sensation as it slid not quite smoothly down his throat. Subconsciously, his hand rubbed his chest, the absence of his arc reactor and the bumps of the scarred skin beneath his worn-out grey shirt sending his thoughts spiralling dangerously. His clutch on the bottle tightened as the sounds of the shield against the arc reactor echoed around the empty house; each rhythmic clank sending bone-chilling dread down his spine. The physical pain God’s Righteous Man had inflicted on him was nothing to the gut-wrenching sense of betrayal he had felt when Steve had just left him there. It has been four difficult and gruelling months, and yet it was funny how it only seemed like yesterday where Steve had broken his heart and thrown its pieces into the cold Siberian wind.

Tony’s world spun and no amount of liquor that he downed could stop the panic that had an iron grip around his throat. Air seemed scarce and the tightness in his chest refused to subside, the panic making him force out a rattling sob.

His face felt wet. Whether it was from tears or blood from the blow to his head back in the bunker, he couldn’t say, nor did he particularly care at that moment because everything HURT. Tony threw the bottle away from him, the glass ricocheting off the wall, letting out a splintering noise that did nothing to appease his racing heart. He clawed at his throat, feeling as trapped as he had all those years ago in the middle of space. _Stark men are made of iron_. Then why was he in pieces? Why couldn’t he breathe like a normal fucking human? Another sob broke free, making his shoulders shake painfully.

He wanted to break something. He wanted this to stop. He hated Steve. He wanted Steve. This constant tug of war within him and the mix of dread, fright and sorrowful love that welled up inside him at the thought of Steve made him feel like he was going to burn from the inside out. If this was what Hell felt like, then he may have to start rethinking all of his martyr ways. Tony gasped, choking. He wanted- no, he needed-air. Tony wheezed, stumbling towards a door.

A cool breeze hit his face. Was he on a roof? A quick look down into the blinding lights of the city confirmed his suspicions. How’d he get up here? Tony wanted to take in a deep breath of the sweet summery air, but he couldn’t. Panic, his worst nemesis, still held a vice-like grip on his throat.

Two warm arms folded themselves around him, tugging him to the ground. It felt so nice. It had been a while since he was last held. The sudden embrace was a bit startling, and in the back of his mind, Tony knew he should be worried about security threats or something. Were they going to hurt him? Tony didn’t know whether to push away or lean in. His foggy brain sighed, throwing in the towel and embracing the hold.

A voice whispered in his ear. It was calm and gentle, yet firm. It was nice, sure, but it wasn’t Steve. Tony frowned. No, not Steve. Never gonna be Steve. Steve had left him. Steve wasn’t coming back. Tony’s chest felt like it was on fire and his hands flew towards his neck again, clawing for air. He couldn’t bring himself to care that whomever was holding him had a front row seat to the destruction of Tony Stark, featuring the never ending stream of tears falling on his face. God damn it, it hurt. It hurt so bad. Why was he always getting hurt by people he lov-

 _Breathe._  
 _Breathe_.  
 _Breathe._ He knew that voice.  
 _Breathe_. Rhodey.

 _Easier said than done, honeybear._ Tony heard Rhodey chuckle. He must have said that last bit aloud. Tony managed to take in a shuddering breath. Then another. Then another, until finally, his shoulders relaxed a bit and he was fully able to lean into the comfort and warmth of his best friend. His best friend, who felt like a poor stand in for Steve, despite all that he’d done.

And before he knew it, Tony was laughing hysterically, pain and alcohol making his brain all fuzzy. He craved Steve like an addict craved a substance. Despite all the bad and all the hurt Steve had inflicted, Tony needed the blue-eyed Avenger. Tony missed his calloused hands, with fingertips always smeared in some sort of charcoal or paint. He missed those same fingers in his hair during team movie nights. His heart ached to hear the gentle playfulness in Steve’s tone and see the soft pink tinge that would colour his cheeks when Tony said something mildly immature. He wanted to see Steve light up the whole room with his smile, see the way Steve’s blue eyes glowed with passion and righteousness.

Without warning, Steve’s eyes darkened into the inscrutable look Steve had worn on his face as he’d sunk his shield one last time into Tony’s chest. And so Tony laughed (or perhaps he was crying, he wasn’t quite sure) whilst Rhodey held him on the roof.

Funny how it seemed like yesterday that it had been Steve holding him on the roof, swaying to the beating of their two hearts as the music of the night enveloped them, the whispers of empty promises taking to the wind.


	3. Steve

The first time they were deployed to the north, Steve had a full blown panic attack. One minute he was standing at the ready, the next his whole world was caving in on him. His senses seemed to dial up to one hundred, which made everything so much worse considering how freezing Northern Canada is no matter the season. His breath came in short pants that fogged in front of him and his fingers and toes went numb. He leaned against the concrete wall behind him, sliding to the floor when he felt like his legs couldn’t support him anymore.

There’s metal around his hands. Why is there metal? Is this Tony’s work? Steve struggled between trying to rip the strange spikes off his hands and the need to clench them even closer because what if Tony had made these? In the end, they retracted on their own, sinking into who knows where on his person. Steve missed them instantly. They reminded him of Tony, of his genius, his wit, his personality that seemed to light up the whole room.

Tony, who he’d almost killed. Tony, who he’d lied to and betrayed. Tony, who he’d left to die.

“Extraction in five,” crackled his comm. Natasha’s voice snapped him back to the present, and the rush of awareness was almost painful. Shuri had made his shields after he’d left his old one in the bunker and he hadn't seen Tony in...well. Probably best not to think of that now.

“Roger that,” he replied, piecing himself back together. He brushed the snow off his pants with his forearm, not wanting to touch it with his bare fingers. He could feel the cold in his bones in a way he hadn’t been able to since he was a boy, when he would shake furiously from the winter chill that crept through the brownstone’s floorboards. It was unsettling to say the least, deeply upsetting if he was being honest.

When Natasha gave him the signal, Steve jumped into action, racing through the abandoned building to greet their target. If Nat or Sam noticed he doesn’t use his shields, even when they’re ambushed by the target’s goons, they don’t say anything.

The cold refused to leave him. It followed him down to Ottawa, where they interrupted an attack on the Prime Minister. It snuck up on him in Prague, after they’ve hacked their way through a terror cell. It held on for dear life in Milan, forcing him into hoodies and long sleeve shirts that definitely didn’t blend well in the city’s fashionable streets.

Natasha gave him a look as he packed up his duffel, but Steve steadfastly ignored her. She probably knew exactly what’s going on in his head, possibly even better than he did, but she was waiting for him to tell her. Which wasn’t going to happen. Not unless pigs took to the sky.

Hold on. Steve took that back. In their line of work, that’s a very real possibility.

They landed in Chicago without fanfare. Steve could feel the tension as they stepped off the plane, could see it in the lines of Sam’s shoulders and Natasha’s posture. She may have thought that she’s got him all figured out, but she wasn’t that opaque herself.

The safehouse was unassuming, a small house on the bad side of town. Steve wished they’d been able to spring for something in the suburbs, but he knew that between gossipy PTA mothers and keen-eyed children, their covers would have blown before they could’ve stepped onto the porch. The place was nice enough, for a safehouse. He didn’t know why or how T’Challa owned it, but he was much too tired and much too grateful to question anything that man did for him.

With a sigh, Steve flopped onto his mattress, letting his bag slip out of his hand and onto the carpeted floor. The duvet smelled nice, like laundry detergent. His mind slipped back to his bed at the Tower, with its stupid lavender scented pillows and silky sheets. What he would give to wake up in that bed and pad down to the kitchen. Tony would be emerging from his lab, bleary eyed and exhausted, on the hunt for coffee and Clint would be burning eggs on the stove. Bruce would be sipping tea or some other herbal concoction that smelled like it’d’ve sent Steve into a coughing fit, way back when. Thor-well, Thor would probably be on Asgard or off with Jane. Natasha would watch him walk in, watch the way he smiled softly at Tony and know everything. She always knew everything.

“Hey, Steve? We’re about to have dinner, if you’re hungry,” said Sam, his hand posed on the doorway.

Steve’s stomach answered for him. Curse stupid super soldier metabolisms.

They took turns cooking while they were stationed in safe houses, and tonight it was Natasha’s turn. She’d made a stew that looks like the kind of meal that Steve’s ma would have happily approved of. It had meat, potatoes, carrots and a few other things he couldn’t quite place but would eat anyway. They ate in silence, Steve at the head of the table with Nat and Sam on either side.

He finished before them, rising to refill his bowl at the old gas stove. Pinnacle of modernity, this house was not. It was comforting and saddening at the same time. Steve slid back to the table, his socks shuffling on the cold, wood floor.

“So,” said Natasha, when he sat back down. Steve braced himself, spoon raised halfway to his lips. “This beard, is it sticking around?”

Steve blinked, setting his spoon down to rub the heel of his hand against his chin. It made a pleasant scratchy noise and the bristles felt nice on his palm. He quite liked the beard. Keeps his chin warm. Too bad the rest of his body is freezing all the time. “I think so. Why?”

She shrugged. “No reason. Just wondering.” Steve knew that wasn’t all, so he ate cautiously, waiting for whatever she’d eventually decide to spring on him. He tried to catch Sam’s eye to no avail.

“We should probably dye your hair, you know.”

Steve groaned and Sam snorted a little into his stew. “What?” Natasha balked, raising her hands. “Goldilocks over here tends to draw a lot of looks.”

Steve huffed, shoving meat into his mouth in an effort to avoid the conversation. “Not my fault,” he muttered around his spoon.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “What’s your huge problem with this? It’ll grow back in no time; your hair grows at, like, triple the rate a normal human’s.” She flicked Steve’s bangs, which were starting to flop into his face. He’d started growing out his hair at Natasha’s request when they went on the run in an effort to distance himself from the world’s perception of Steve Rogers, war hero and legend. He’d also gotten a little bit attached in the process and would be a little annoyed if Natasha’s decided he had to spend the next four months with black hair.

Also, he doubted anyone would recognize him with black hair and a beard. Even Tony. Especially Tony. Not that Steve thought he was looking.

“What colour?” he asked, unclenching his teeth. He reached for the shakers on the table and peppered his soup, if only to bother Natasha, who took cooking very seriously and would never underseason her food. True enough, she swatted at him as he shook the flakes into his stew.

“Stop glaring at your zharkoe, you overgrown retriever.” Rising from the table, she took Steve’s head in her hands, pulling his face from where it had been hunched over his bowl. He grunted, and Sam stifled a laugh, earning him a glare from Steve. She ran her hands through his hair, tossing it this way and that in inspection. “I was thinking brown. A medium brown or chocolate would distract from the All American shtick, but still work with your colouring,” she hummed, scratching his scalp with her fingernails. Steve melted a little, tension easing from his shoulders. His whole body shuddered, warmth washing over him from head to toe.

“Man, you really are just a giant puppy. One good scratch and you’re melting into the floor,” said Sam, laughing in earnest this time.

Steve kicked him in the shin, smiling when he heard Sam double over, cursing. He opened his eyes when Natasha’s fingers left his hair and watched as he swatted at him. “Quit teasing him,” she ordered. “He’s been through a lot,” she continued, a bit quieter this time.

That sobered the mood, and both Steve and Sam suddenly took interest in what the floor had to offer. She couldn’t fully know, can she? How he had nightmares of that day, how he can hear the sickening crack of his shield crashing into the arc reactor. The chills that had been banished by Nat’s fingers came creeping back in, numbing his toes. He took a deep breath, feeling like Tony’s arc reactor was in his chest, stealing air from his lungs. He’d known it wasn’t still in Tony when he’d hit him. He’d known-and yet, Tony had still wheezed like he’d had just stolen his heart right out of his chest, and given him that look that followed Steve, even in his dreams.

“Besides,” sniffed Natasha, “we’re going to have to get rid of your beard. It’s too recognizable.”

Sam’s head snapped up and he squawked, hands flying up to protect his face. Natasha grinned menacingly, making grabby hands at him as Sam flew from his chair to escape her. Steve smiled britally, his lips blue.


	4. Tony

Under Rhodey’s almost hawk-like stare, Tony downed his medication with a mug of lukewarm coffee. Looking pleased with himself, Rhodey returned to his newspaper and Tony couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his old man habits. Pepper walked into the kitchen, the sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. She didn’t look up from her StarkPad, snatching a bagel from Rhodey’s plate before walking up to Tony.

“I’ve cleared your calendar for the day,” she said nonchalantly, swiping at the device’s screen. She did a good job playing it off, but Tony knew that she’d pushed the meetings for a reason.

He moodily took a bite out of his bacon, not quite appreciating her meddling. “I’m not fragile, Pep. I can handle a shareholder’s meeting or two without spontaneously combusting.”

Pepper sighed, meeting Tony’s eyes. “I know, Tony. I’m just trying to look out for your health since you refuse to,” she replied, giving him a pointed look.

Though it had been a couple of weeks since the roof, Rhodey and Pepper refused to leave his side. Although it was nice to know there were people in his corner, all the coddling was starting to get unbearable.

He glared half-heartedly at Pepper, cursing under his breath, which she resolutely ignored. Pepper grabbed her bag, sliding the StarkPad inside, and looked back up at Tony and Rhodey.

“If you need anything, call.” She stood there for a moment, looking at Tony with sad eyes that made the Avenger squirm uncomfortably in his seat. Rhodey gave her a curt nod, and she spun on her heel, leaving the penthouse.

“You know, she has a point,” Rhodey said, face still hidden behind the Times.

The elevator dinged and its doors closed. Tony deflated, rubbing at his chest to try to ease the pain his scars were causing him. He turned towards the churning coffee machine, waiting for a fresh pot. Rhodey gently set his newspaper down on the kitchen counter, his eyes following Tony’s every move.

“It hurts, doesn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. Stubborn as ever, Tony shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Tony replied, but Rhodey wasn’t having any of it.

“Had you listened to doctor Cho and used the cream, it wouldn’t be bothering you right now,” Rhodey pointed out, lifting a brow.

Tony faced Rhodey, and the disappointment directed at him made his stomach knot. “Come on, Rhodes. What’s it been, twenty years we’ve known each other? You know I never listen,” he replied with as much sass he could muster, smirking half-heartedly.

Rhodey gave him a look that clearly said he wasn’t buying it, and Tony had to turn around to avoid his best friend’s insistent gaze, insides squirming with guilt.

“Sorry. I just forgot,” he mumbled, finally pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I won’t forget anymore.”

“Well, you better not because if FRIDAY wakes me up at 4am to tell me you had a fever because your dumb ass didn’t-”

“Alright, alright. Jesus,” Tony said, exasperated. There was silence as the two stared each other down. Tony was the first to break, fighting against the smile creeping onto his face. “Motherhood does not suit you.”

Rhodey scowled. “You know what, Tones, the English language lacks the requisite words to express how much I dislike you at this moment.”

Tony laughed. “Love you too!”

Grabbing the strawberry from Rhodey’s plate and popping it in his mouth, he made his way to the elevator, not missing the little snort of laughter Rhodey tried to disguise as a cough.

Many coffees later, FRIDAY announced in a chipper voice the arrival of one Peter Parker. Despite his misery, Tony couldn’t help but smile. The sliding doors opened with a hiss and Peter Parker stood in the entrance, awkward as ever, with his bag slung on one shoulder.

“Hi, Mister Stark!” the kid managed to squeak out. It was their time meeting in the lab and still, Peter’s nervous excitement practically radiated off of him.

Tony rolled his eyes and waved him over. “Well don’t just stand there kid, we’ve got work to do.”

Peter shot him a hesitant smile before walking into the lab to set camp beside Tony. He dropped his bag on the floor by the worktable. “So,” began Tony, opening up a holographic screen in front of the both of them, scrolling through to Peter’s file. “How was school?” he asked, cringing inwardly at the domesticity of it all.

Peter grinned, and he took off, his mouth moving a mile a minute. As they worked on Peter’s suit, the boy talked enthusiastically about everything from the best Lego sets to the benefits and drawbacks of different lightsabers, interrupting himself to plead, “Please, oh please, Mister Stark, could we make one”. Tony mostly listened, giving his input here and there. He was truly amazed by the brains of this kid and how he could talk so much without passing out from lack of oxygen.

The conversation drifted towards Peter’s friends, Ned and MJ. The kid was rambling about a Lego kit Ned had got, talking with his hands, as Tony inputted code into the suit’s files. “Oh, and MJ’s got this art show thing coming up, and I think she’s going to invite us, but I’m also still not sure she actually likes me as a friend, so I’m keeping my calendar open just in case,” Peter rambled.

Tony hummed, the words settling into his brain. “An art show? That’s neat.”

Tony didn’t have to look up to know that Peter was blushing. “Yeah, she’s really great. She does these drawings, and they’re this strange, kind of eerie style. To be honest, they’re kind of concerning, but…”

Peter’s words faded out, and Tony’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. His heart rate picked up as he remembered late nights in the lab with Steve curled up on the slightly singed couch stuffed in the corner, the sound of charcoal sketching on coarse paper mingling with the hum of the machines in the lab.

He screwed his eyes shut, picturing Steve’s large, pastel covered hands affectionately cupping Tony’s cheek. Hands that had once been gentle and caring…hands that had curled into a fist and shattered his heart.

“-ster Stark?” Peter’s worried voice drifted in, “Are you alright? You’re really pale...sh-should I get someone? Mister Colonel Rhodes maybe?”

Tony opened his eyes and managed a smile. “It’s okay kiddo, just a headache. Everything is fine.”

“Are you sure?” Peter said with uncertainty, his brows drawn together.

“Yeah, kid. You worry too much for your own good,” Tony replied lightheartedly. He brought his hand up to Peter’s head without thinking. By the time he realized what he was doing, it was too awkward to retract his hand, so he patted Peter, ruffling his hair. Peter’s eyes were wide with mild surprise and he looked like he was trying his hardest to keep a giddy smile off his face.

When FRIDAY alerted them of the time, it certainly dampened Peter’s mood. “Thanks, Mister Stark. I had a really great time today!” he said, collecting his book bag from the floor.

“Sure thing,” Tony replied, getting up and walking him to the lobby. They rode the elevator in silence and when Peter hesitated at the exit, Tony couldn’t help but frown. “What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

“I-I just, um, wanted to make sure you were alright, Mister Stark,” he said, cracking his knuckles nervously. “I-I know I can talk a lot, so I’m sorry if I caused your headache-”

“I’m gonna have to stop you right there, spiderling,” Tony replied, raising a hand in protest. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. I just had one too many cups of coffee and not enough sleep.” With a sigh, Tony gave Peter a smile, making shooing motions with his hands. “Run along now, or your ridiculously hot, somewhat scary aunt is gonna kill me for keeping you here too long.”

Peter laughed. “Okay, okay. Bye, Mister Stark!” he called, jogging through the glass exit and heading towards the subway.

Later that night, after being forced to use the cream and go to bed by Pepper and Rhodey, Tony lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands knotted together atop his stomach. It had been a good day. There was no doubt about it, the kid was like a ray of sunshine, lifting his spirits enough for Tony to continue on with the day rather than crawl back into bed with a bottle to keep him warm. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon tinkering in the workshop, then had baked (and burned) a disgustingly sweet cake with Pepper, capping off the evening with a movie with Rhodey. There had been no anxiety attacks or cruel, taunting voices in his head. Most importantly, he had only thought of Steve once.

Tony felt his breath even out and didn’t even have the energy to fight off the tug of sleep as he slipped off into blissful oblivion.


	5. Steve

Steve flipped the pamphlet over in his hand and sighed. He slipped it back into the tourism board, back with the other Art Institute guides. The elderly woman at the front desk was chatting with a frazzled looking mother, pointing out where the modern art section started on a map identical to the one he’d held a few seconds ago. Steve adjusted his glasses, sliding them further up his nose. 

“Can I help you, dear?” said a voice. Steve looked up to find the help desk woman looking up at him, smiling sweetly.

“Oh, no. Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it, though,” he stuttered. It probably wasn’t the best idea to start a conversation while trying to scope out the museum’s massive lobby, but what the hell. He’d manage. They didn’t call him a super soldier for nothing. “I’m just looking,” Steve explained.

“First time?” she asked. Steve nodded, glancing down at her name badge, where Miriam was written in capital letters under the word volunteer. “The first time is always the best. I still remember coming here as a girl with my mother in ‘48. Of course, we’ve gotten so many new exhibits since then, but there’s something magical about stepping in those grand halls for the first time, don’t you think?” Miriam looked up at Steve, her eyes twinkling. Steve flashed back to Tony, sitting in the workshop as he talked animatedly about his robots.

Steve blinked a few times to clear the image. “Oh, yes, ma’am. I definitely know what you mean.” He tried for a smile, but worried it came out a little crooked. Miriam didn’t seem to mind, returning it ten fold.

Steve felt something open a little in his chest as she hunched over the map, circling where the more famous paintings were and her personal favourites. Thinking of the past didn’t hurt as much anymore, but sometimes remembering how he was technically older than this woman by at least a handful of decades sent Steve’s head for a spin.

“And here you are,” Miriam said, closing up the pamphlet and sliding it across the table to Steve. “Have a lovely visit.”

Steve nodded his thanks, slipping the brochure into his jacket pocket. He turned to go, but was stopped by a frail hand on his wrist.

“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” whispered Miriam, her green eyes wide and knowing behind her grey spectacles. “It isn't right what happened.”

Steve stiffened, scanning the periphery for agents hidden in the shadows. Had he been made? Was Miriam like the woman back in the antiques shop, unassuming until you stepped in the light and she shot you point blank?

Her grip tightened and Steve got ready to run. He brought his eyes back to her face, realising she was saying something. “-ptain? Captain, are you alright?”

Steve’s hands were cold under her warm grip. Her skin was soft, lined with age. Steve mapped out the exits, trying to figure out a way to meet Natasha at the rendez-vous before he caused a scene. He slipped his hand out of her grip gently, his nerves going haywire.

“Are they-are you...have you pressed the button yet? To call on the agents?” he whispered, dropping his voice so quiet he wondered if she could even hear him.

“Pardon me?” she replied gently.

“Please, ma’am, there are civilians around. I’ll come quietly, but I don’t want to hurt any innocent people,” he pleaded. Miriam gave him an incredulous look, and Steve glanced around once more. Cold sweat was breaking out on the back of his neck and he could feel his hands start to shake from where they were fingering his pulse point, ready to activate his shields.

“Captain Rogers, I’m not too sure what-”

“Grant!” exclaimed someone, at the same time an arm landed across Steve’s shoulders. He jerked away from the noise, wincing. His back burned where the stranger’s arm touched him. “There you are!” 

Steve turned, taking in the man next to him. Sam, his brain supplied. Sam, who was probably saving his ass because Sam had two functional eyes and could tell that Steve was about to panic and blow their cover, eliminating any possibility of surrendering peacefully to Ross and his people. 

“Saphiya and I have been looking all over for you. I think we must’ve lost you over by the knights, but then I got to thinking, where would Grant, who needs a GPS to make the 5 minute drive to work, go if he got lost?” Sam continued, flicking one of the pamphlets lining the stand. “And here you are. Man, I  _ told _ you to get a map before we left. Sometimes I wonder if you can even tell your left from your right.” He smiled gratefully at Miriam, why was he  _ smiling, _ they were about to get put back in the Raft, who gave him a confused look in return. “Thanks so much for watching him, uh, Miriam. Let’s go Grant, Saph’ll kill me if we miss our lunch reservation ‘cause I let you wander off.”

Sam practically dragged Steve away from the help desk, which must’ve looked a little odd, considering Steve had at least three inches on him. “We have to clear the building out, I think Ross knows we’re here. That woman, she probably called in reinforcements-” Steve choked out, his mind racing a mile a minute.

Sam pulled Steve into a men’s restroom, checking the stalls. Once he found them empty, he locked the bathroom door and turned to face Steve, an expression of disbelief, anger and worry colouring his features. “What are you  _ talking _ about, man?”

Steve blinked, gesturing behind him. “The woman-”

“That woman was just some random old lady from Chicago who happened to volunteer the same day you decided to have a mini freak out during the op,” Sam replied, speaking slowly. Steve frowned, and Sam continued, his voice starting to twinge with exasperation. “Natasha ran a background check, Steve. She has no connection to any military or public organisms, unless maybe you count the Chicago Public Library, where she volunteers on weekends. She’s clean, Steve. Ross isn’t here.”

Oh. “But she’d-”

“Realised who you were?” Sam rubbed his forehead. He looked a little strange without his goatee, and Steve’s eye kept drawing to the spot where Natasha had plugged the gap in his teeth with special make-up. “Yeah, well. I’d probably put two and two together if a man the size of a brick shithouse with twinkly blue eyes came up to me in an art gallery too, beard or not. Nat’s disguises are pretty good, but they’re not really made for up close and personal encounters with people who’ve probably grown up looking at posters of your face.”

Steve wilted. He’d blown the op, hadn’t he? Their target had probably bolted, and all of this time was wasted. He’d let the grunt just slip through his fingers. They were only on the first step of the mission plan and he, the supposed master tactician, had already screwed things up. God, what was wrong with him?

“Hey, hey, Steve! Steve, calm down, it’s okay. The target’s still there, the mission’s fine. You’re fine. Breathe for me man, you’re starting to freak me out.” Sam clasped his hands on Steve’s shoulders, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

Steve copied him and his breath evened out, but his kneecaps were still locked in place, frost encasing his joints. He wiggled his fingers, and a few icicles dislodged. Thank god. There was still time. He had to get back out there, had to prove he could do  _ right.  _ “We should-” he tried, trying to pull out of Sam’s grasp.

“Nah, man, I think you need a break. Nat’s watching the floor right now, and I’m going to take your place and catch this guy,” Sam said. Mistaking Steve’s tense shoulders for doubt, he continued, “I know I’m no Captain America, but I think I can handle this guy.”

Sam smiled at him, which Steve did his best to return. Sam sighed, seemingly seeing right through his poorly fitted mask. “Just go sit outside for a bit while we handle this. Feed the pigeons or something, that’s something old people do, right?”

Steve couldn’t help the reflexive grumble at that, built into him from all of Tony’s teasing. Reluctantly, he nodded stiffly. Sam sighed, obviously relieved, and drew his hands away from Steve’s shoulders. With a final pat on the back, they left the restroom, Steve headed to the exit while Sam walked towards a grand, ornate staircase.

Steve spent the afternoon on a metal bench outside the museum, trying not to let his mind wander towards where it was desperately clawing at. He shivered violently, wrapping his arms around himself as he avoided watching the pedestrians, everyone from the businessman in expensive suits to the children wearing t-shirts with the red and gold face that haunted Steve’s dreams threatening to send him spiralling over the edge.


	6. Tony

_It was 4AM, and Tony was finally making his way up to bed. He stopped short as he passed through the lounge, noticing a large figure bent at an awkward angle on the couch. He huffed out a laugh and made his way towards Steve, leaning forward to lower one of those wooly blankets Bruce liked around him. As Tony was about to walk away, he felt fingers wrap around his wrist. Steve groaned, tugging Tony towards him. Not one to stand against the might of a super soldier, sleepy or not, Tony relented, and with an “oof”, fell on top of the wooly blanket._

_Steve pulled Tony next to him on the couch, flipping the blanket so it covered the both of them. He flopped a large arm around Tony, tugging him to his warm chest. “Stay,” Steve whispered drowsily in Tony’s ear._

_Tony couldn’t stop the fluttering in his stomach or the huge grin on his face. “Alright,” Tony whispered. “But if I have neck problems tomorrow morning, I’m blaming you.”_

_His smile widened when he heard Steve snort. Quite pleased with himself, Tony settled in, resting his head on Steve's chest. Steve’s heartbeat was like thunder in his ears as Tony traced little patterns on his shirt. For the first time, Tony felt himself accept the fact that he might love Steve._

_With a happy sigh, Tony melted into Steve’s embrace. He yawned, resting his head right below Steve’s chin. “Love you,” he muttered sleepily to Steve’s chest, giving it a final pat before closing his eyes._

_As he drifted off, he felt Steve’s warm breath in his hair, the ghost of his words not quite reaching Tony’s ears._

_Steve stood in front of the fogged up bathroom mirror. He winced as he cut himself while shaving the stubble growing on his chin. He rinsed his straight razor and grabbed a towel to pat his face dry. Steve heard the door of the washroom open, before closing with a soft click. When he looked up in the mirror and saw Tony, fluffy hair slightly curled and damp from a shower, his breath hitched._

_“Hey,” Steve tried, his voice a little hoarse. Tony smirked, sliding over to stand beside Steve._

_“Hey yourself,” Tony replied, resting his head on Steve’s damp shoulder. His hair tickled Steve’s skin. “You getting ready for tonight?”_

_Steve hummed in agreement, pulling the skin of his jaw tight so that he could shave his right side. He dunked the razor in the water, swirling it around to get the hair and cream off. As much as he appreciated the technological advancements of the future, he still preferred using an “old-fashioned” straight razor. He hadn’t needed to shave much in his youth, but after the serum his hair had started to grow in earnest, forcing him to shave every morning so he wouldn’t have a full face of stubble by the end of the day._

_Tony met Steve’s eyes in the mirror, bringing his hand up to rub his thumb along the patch along Steve’s cheekbone that he had yet to get to. “Have you ever considered growing a beard?”_

_Steve wrinkled his nose, pushing Tony’s hand away so he could finish shaving. With a smooth swipe, he was clean shaven again. “Sure.”_

_Tony raised an eyebrow. “So why haven’t you done it?”_

_“Few reasons. Wouldn’t fit with the whole Boy Scout thing you guys seem to think I’ve got going on and it’d probably get caught in my helmet, most notably,” Steve argued, rinsing off his razor in the sink. The small cut he’d made earlier had already healed, and Steve smacked his face with aftershave._

_“Oh, come on. You’d look so handsome. All rugged and stuff,” Tony teased, taking Steve’s chin in his hand. “Like a lumberjack or something.”_

_Steve rolled his eyes. “Are you suggesting that I’m not handsome already?”_

_“Of course you are, Cap,” Tony said, going up on the tips of his toes to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek, his own facial hair scratching against Steve’s soft cheek. “But maybe you’ll consider it as a present for my next birthday,” he added, giving Steve a look_ . _Steve grumbled something under his breath, trying to fight off his smile amd push away the familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach that was usually brought on by Tony’s stupid brown eyes._

_“I’ll think about it,” Steve finally conceded. Tony grinned like a child on Christmas. He leaned forward to grab his bottle of cologne from Steve’s sink._

_“I’ll see you in a bit, Rogers,” Tony said, holding onto the black crystal bottle. He shot Steve an extremely corny wink on his way out, swinging his hips to some unheard beat. Steve chortled, shaking his head at Tony’s antics, before grabbing a comb._

_Time didn’t really exist in the lab. It was just Tony and his machines. Tony was in his element, three piece suits traded for a tank top spotted with oil and grease. Though he occasionally sweared when something didn’t work or if Dum-E made him another smoothie made out of motor oil and crushed metal bits, Tony’s usual snippy, talkative personality quieted in the lab. This was his safe space; one of the only places where he could be quiet and let his brain go buckwild, his hands and machines filling the silence with their own language._

_Sometimes, if Tony was lucky, amid the sounds of motors whirring, machine humming or FRIDAY’s occasional input, the sounds of charcoal scratching against paper could be heard._

_Curiosity getting the better of him, Tony finally turned in his chair, “You’ve been scribbling for the last couple of hours, lemme see!” He made grabby motions at Steve, who raised an eyebrow, pulling his sketchbook closer to his chest._

_“No,” Steve replied. “It’s not finished.” He turned back to his sketch, charcoal poised above the paper._

_Tony kept making puppy dog eyes at him, waiting patiently for Steve to cave. So maybe his needy face wasn’t as effective as Steve’s. It still got the job done. Tony smiled when Steve sighed heavily, relenting._

_“You’re so impatient,” Steve grumbled fondly, slapping the sketchbook shut heavily. Tony just grinned, scooting his chair closer to Steve._

_Steve flipped through the sketchbook and landed on the colored drawing of one of the coffee shops near the tower he and Tony frequented . Tony leaned in to see, his expression at first surprised, then dubious._

_“Wait hold up...you weren’t drawing this! There’s colour in it, dumbass! I know for a fact that you were not colouring because you don’t have your obnoxiously large crayola box here!” Tony exclaimed. “You can’t fool me. Need I remind you that I'm a genius?”_

_At Steve’s apprehensive look, Tony cranked up the charm, batting his eyelashes, “Oh come on Stevie…. Won’t you please show me what you were drawing? Was it something inappropriate_ ? _” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively._

_Steve’s neck and ears turned bright pink. “No!” he replied, whacking Tony gently with the sketchbook._

_“Well then, show me! Oh come on, pretty pl-” Tony’s pleading and teasing were stopped short when he felt Steve’s lips crash into his. Steve cupped Tony’s cheek with one hand, smudging some of the black charcoal on Tony’s cheek and nose._

_“Are you trying to distract me by kissing me?” Tony asked, pulling back to give Steve an incredulous look. It was a move Tony would’ve pulled, not Steve. Maybe all the time they spent was starting to corrupt Steve’s innocent ways._

_Steve looked like a strange cross between mischievous and sheepish. “Depends,” he said, looking at Tony from under his lashes. “Is it working?”_

_Tony rolled his eyes, but melted under Steve’s touch, falling backwards onto the couch. His hands roamed greedily between them, tugging at Steve’s shirt. Steve reciprocated happily, giving as good as he got. “FRI, blackout,” Tony muttered, and the large windows tinted, granting them their privacy._

_Later, after Steve had gone upstairs to make them lunch (because of course Steve’s first move after making out on the couch like teenagers was to feed Tony), Tony slipped his shirt back on, sitting up on the couch. He smiled lazily, his eye catching Steve’s sketchbook that lay on the floor, forgotten. He bit his lip, considering the book. Against his better judgement, Tony slid forward, snatching the thick book from the floor._

_Tony leaned back, flipping through the creamy papers. Page after page of lifelike landscapes scrolled past in bright colour, and Tony couldn’t help but be impressed by the level of detail held in the pages. Finally, he got to a page drawn only in black and greys: Steve’s drawing from today._

_Tony’s breath caught as he took in the page, looking down at his own face, which stared back up at him with an expression of joy and fascination. Was this how Steve saw him? He looked so...happy. So effortless and free. Tony thought back to all of the times he and Steve had laid together on the couch watching movies or the nights they’d spent eating together at candlelight, hands twined together._

_Footsteps thudded down the stairs leading to the workshop, and Tony hurried to put the sketchbook back where he found it. Steve walked into the shop, a tray of sandwiches in hand. His face broke out in a grin, and Tony couldn’t help but smile back, his face molding into the expression Steve had drawn without him even realising._

Tony woke up abruptly, tear tracks drying uncomfortably on his face. He sat up in his bed, eyes doing their best to adjust to the darkness around him. He could still feel the ghost of Steve’s warm hands on his cheeks. His eyes burned with fresh tears and his throat felt dry, his heart pounding in his chest. Shifting slightly, he reached beneath his pillow and grabbed the small device that hid there. With a deep breath, Tony turned on the phone, his face lighting up from the blue-white glow of the screen. His fingers shook and he wiped his sweaty palms on his covers before gathering up his courage.

**_Have you grown that beard yet?_ **

He deleted that instantaneously. Did he seriously think that was a good line? Tony mentally kicked himself. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he started a new message. Typing on a flip phone was proving to be much harder than he expected. 

**_I miss you._ **

He stared at the message he had typed up. He couldn’t send that. His thumb hovered over the “ENTER” button for a while, the idea mulling over in his mind. Finally, he shook his head. This was a terrible idea. 

As he was about to delete the message, instead of hitting the arrow button, his thumb slipped and before he knew it, the alert that a message had been sent rang in his ears.

Fuck.

He stared at the screen in horror. What had he done?


	7. Steve

Steve fiddled with his thumbs, trying not to flinch under Nat’s piercing gaze. Sam had left the two alone, claiming that he was going out to go get some air. Natasha hadn’t stopped Sam to caution him about the dangers of getting caught, which told Steve that he was in _big_ trouble. It made him feel five feet tall again, and he rubbed his palms on his thighs, trying to warm them up.

“Would you stop that?” Nat stopped, swatting his hands away. Her voice was sharp, her nerves obviously on edge. “You’re stressing me out just looking at you.”

Steve glanced up at her before hanging his head. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Natasha took a deep breath, and Steve braced himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found himself on the receiving end of her fury, but he’d certainly witnessed it a handful of times when Tony or Clint did something stupid in battle. And sure enough, the fire she lobbed at him was anything but pleasant.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Steve?” she exclaimed. “Where was your head today? You almost let a handful of guards get a decent shot on you, then you zoned out during the interrogation, and if Sam hadn’t stopped him, Dukowitz, the man we’ve spent the last two weeks tracking down, would’ve swallowed an arsenic pill before we could get any information out of him. And it’s not just today! It was the museum, the parking lot...hell, even at dinner you’re somewhere else!” Steve risked a glance, and his muscles clenched at the look of fury in Nat’s eyes. 

Natasha huffed angrily. “I just…you’re never here during missions, mentally or physically. I’ve had to pull you out of harm’s way more times in the last month than I’ve had to over our whole career in the Avengers.” Steve’s jaw clenched when she mentioned the team, his hands fisting under the table. “You’re a liability right now, Steve. I would’ve expected this from someone like Tony, but you? I’ve never seen your emotions get the best of you like this. I can’t-” Her voice broke, and Steve looked up to find Nat’s face in her hands, blonde hair shielding her from his view. 

Steve reached out to take Natasha’s hand in his, but she pulled away, eyes blazing. She stood up abruptly from the table, mouth pinched. “You are not the only one who is hurting. I made my choices and you made yours, and now we have to live with those decisions.” Nat inhaled sharply, shutting her eyes. Steve watched her reign herself in, her face morphing from the woman he knew and loved into the perfect Russian spy she still considered herself to be at heart. Her eyes flicked back open, regarding Steve cooley. Her back was ramrod straight, her mouth an emotionless line, and Steve straightened to attention subconsciously. When she spoke again, her voice held no trace of shakiness or empathy. “I don’t care how sad you are, soldier. It’s no excuse for sloppiness. Pull yourself together. I expect perfection tomorrow,” she spat, turning on her heel and storming out of the room, her feet not making a sound against the old floorboards.

Steve sat in the kitchen long after she’d left, the words replaying over and over again in his head. If Sam returned at some point, Steve didn’t notice, his perfect memory too busy inking Nat’s words into his brain. She was right. He’d been sloppy, endangering both the mission and his teammates, making mistakes that should’ve been drilled out of him back in Basic. He felt a wave of shame wash over him, accompanied as always by a cool rush that numbed him from the crown of his head down to his toes.

After a while, Steve blinked, taking in a deep breath. The sun had long since set, and he sat alone in darkness. Silently, Steve left his chair and headed into his bedroom, going through the motions as he got ready for bed. He rinsed his toothbrush under the tap water, squirting toothpaste on the bristles. He shut the tap off, glancing up at the mirror.

Tony stood beside him, smiling happily as he rubbed his hand along Steve’s cheek. He laughed, the sound reverberating off the tiled floor. Steve could only watch, helpless, as Tony’s ghost winked at him in his reflection, as if everything was alright. 

The mirror gave easily under his fist, and Steve let the blood run down his fingers. It’d be healed by the morning anyway. 

With a sigh, he walked back into his bedroom, falling onto his bed. He buried his face in his pillow, hoping that sleep would come easily tonight. His prayers were answered for once, and Steve felt himself drifting off peacefully, no thoughts of Tony or Siberia to be found.

And then, from deep in the folds of his duffel bag, beneath clothes and the hyper sophisticated, off the grid phone T’Challa had given him before he’d left, Steve’s flip phone buzzed.


	8. Tony

Tony clutched the phone with shaking hands, staring at it incredulously. What had he done? He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream or pull at his hair. Usually when something like this happened, he’d drag Natasha to the nearest club, where they’d drown their sorrows with alcohol and occasionally drugs, only because they could. Alcohol and loud music were a temporary cure to the constant barrage of his thoughts. Left unchecked for too long, they’d drag him under and drown him with their inky pull. 

The bed suddenly felt too warm and Tony pushed the heavy covers off. He made no move to get up, lying on his back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Natasha would know what to do. He could almost hear her telling him to get a grip, phantom voice tinged with a barely there Russian lilt. He’d always enjoyed Natasha’s company. He missed her snarky attitude and how she was brutally honest about everything except her feelings, which she kept tucked deep inside herself, especially those regarding a certain not so retired Avenger. Both Natasha and Tony were laughably terrible at coming to terms with their feelings, and over the years they’d bonded over their unspoken grief. He loved Rhodey and Pepper to bits, but they were normal people who suggested logical, healthy responses to his problems when, in those moments, logic was not something he needed. Natasha, on the other hand, was happy to slip out of the tower at two in the morning, whispering an apology to their livers as they tossed back shot after shot in some dimly lit hole. 

Tony rolled his neck, trying to relieve some of the stiffness that had set in. Clutching the phone tightly in his hand, he made his way to the bathroom. A sudden thought stopped him in the tracks, feet pausing at the threshold. Steve even receiving the message was actually wishful thinking. It’d been a little over four and a half months. At this point he’d probably thrown the phone away or broken it into tiny pieces. Maybe he hadn’t even brought it with him to wherever he, Nat and Sam were off galavanting.

_ He doesn’t care. He’s forgotten about you. What makes you think he actually gives a damn? He only pretended to like you for the team. He doesn’t need you- _

Tony shook his head, sending the thoughts scattering. It was way too early and he was much too sober to deal with this right now. He padded his way to the kitchen and opened the liquor cabinet, swiping a bottle of Hennessy from the bottom shelf. It was 5 o’clock somewhere, he thought, snorting at his cleverness. He grabbed a Hulk merchandise mug from another cabinet and poured some of the amber liquid into the green fist. 

“Cheers,” he muttered to no one in particular, pressing the chipped mug to his lips. Before the liquid could burn his throat, his back pocket thrummed. Tony froze, eyes wide. 

Steve had replied. Steve had actually replied. Tony set down the bottle and considered it, rubbing his forehead. Was this something he wanted to do sober? The phone buzzed a second time, and he closed his eyes, figuring that when he’d open them, there would be no notification. This whole thing was just a figment of his imagination, his desire to see Steve again manifested. He tugged the phone out of his pocket, tossing it on the counter next to the bottle.

But as his brown eyes fell onto the small phone screen, a chipper looking message icon proved him wrong. He hesitated, glancing between the bottle in his hand and the phone he had placed on the counter. He gnawed on his bottom lip before making up his mind. 

“I’m not done with you,” he told the bottle sternly, turning to the phone. 

_ Hello to you to, T6ny.  _

_ *too _

Tony stared at the response. He couldn’t help but smirk as he pictured Steve, tongue clamped between his teeth as he tried to figure out how to text on a flip phone with his large hands. He remembered the time Steve had come down to the workshop with a palm full of wires and casing to sheepishly ask Tony for another phone because he’d crushed his old one in frustration over the tiny keyboard. He winced at the memory and shook his head to clear it. 

He couldn’t respond right away. No. That would be weird. Never mind that Steve probably didn’t know the texting etiquette that Peter had tried to lecture him multiple times in, Tony wasn’t some sixteen year old girl waiting by the phone to get a text back. He took a deep breath and turned off the phone.

“Boss, I have detected an elevated heart rate. Should I contact Colonel Rhodes?” FRIDAY chimed. 

“No, no, it’s all good FRI,” replied Tony, rubbing his temples.

“Are you sure, sir?” FRIDAY asked, sounding oddly concerned for an AI. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tony snapped, temper rising. He looked at the bottle again and, with a sigh, gave in. Grabbing it, he poured the amber liquid into a glass. 

Pepper walked in on his fourth glass, tightening the rope around her robe. She stopped halfway into the kitchen, fixing Tony with the same look she gave him when she found him huddled up in his workshop instead of eating lunch with important clients.

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” she said, her mouth drawn into a thin line.

“Well, if you think it’s apple juice,” Tony said, words only slightly slurred, “you’re tragically wrong.”

“Tony, it’s six in the morning!” Pepper exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “The sun hasn’t even risen and you’re already drinking?”

“I’m getting a head start,” Tony replied, emptying the contents of his glass into his mouth.

“I understand that you’re hurting, Tony _ , _ ” Pepper said, her lips pursed, “but this is getting out of hand! You can’t keep wallowing in your pain, wasting away at the bottom of the bottle. There are people here that care about you, Tony and we can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.” She paused, obviously pissed, her cheeks flushed. “You promised me you’d take care of yourself, but you’re not! You just sit at the bar and drink yourself silly and push all of us away. I just-God, Tony. I don’t even know what to say to you. You’re being ridiculously selfish and I’m at my wit's end here,” she exclaimed, eyes brimming with unshed angry tears. The two stared at each other for a moment, the smile gone from both their faces.

_ Selfish. _ The word pushed through the haze of alcohol, ringing clear in his head.  _ Selfish little boy all alone in his big mansion with all his expensive toys. Selfish. Volatile. Would not recommend Tony Stark. Self obsessed. Selfish. Big man in a suit of armour. Selfish. Stop pretending you’re a hero. Selfish selfish self- _

“Okay, I think we’re done here,” he sniffed, pocketing the phone and grabbing the bottle. He slid off the stool, feet thudding against the hardwood floor. 

“Tony, wait, I-” Pepper started, her features twisted with guilt and pity. She tried to reach out for him but he gently pushed her away, avoiding her eyes. 

Willing his body not to stumble or trip over anything, Tony made his way to his room, running his hand along the wall for balance. The door clicked shut and he slid to the floor, back against a chest of drawers. He took a few deep breaths and another sip of liquid courage before finally slipping the phone out of his pocket. Flipping it open, he clicked through to Steve’s messages, reading them once more to make sure he hadn’t made the whole thing up. Steve’s message had been sent at 4:55am EDT, though what time that was for Steve, Tony had no idea. With a sigh, he replied.

**_Hi._ **

There. Short and sweet. Nothing wrong with a simple “hi”, right? He had barely started overthinking his reply when the phone buzzed with an incoming text.

_ Took you long enough.  _

Tony snorted. Ah, sarcastic Steve. Okay, he could work with this angle.

**_And I thought I was the impatient one._ **

Tony chewed on his lip as he waited for a response. He stared at the screen for a while and was about to give up on getting anything back when another message popped up.

_ Why? _

Tony gnawed at the skin around his thumb, brow furrowed. Why what? Why now? What had happened to make Tony pick up the phone after four and a half months of radio silence? Or perhaps Steve meant why did Tony miss him? To be quite honest, Tony didn’t have an answer to any one of those options.

**_I don’t really have an answer for that._ **

Tony shut off the phone and rose on shaky legs. He headed to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection as he stripped. Turning the shower to near scalding, he stepped in, supporting himself on the shower wall as he blinked away dark spots that had crept into his vision. The burning water made him arch his back in pain but he didn’t do anything to change the temperature. Try as he might, the water wouldn’t drown his thoughts. 

Towel wrapped around his bottom half, Tony passed a comb through his wet curls, finally looking at himself in the mirror. He seemed pale. He should probably leave the house, and made a half hearted note to himself to do so. His eyes drifted past his face to the only slightly inflamed scar that marred his chest. Tracing it gingerly with one finger, he could almost feel the ghost of the shield sinking into his flesh. He could hear Bucky’s groan of pain and feel Steve’s hatred, disgust and disappointment. When Tony closed his eyes, it wasn’t Steve’s angered look that he saw, like he usually did. It had morphed into something tragic, Steve’s baby blue eyes seemingly pleading for his forgiveness.

Tony opened his eyes, surprised at the tears that had gathered behind his eyelids. He wiped them away with a rushed motion and turned away from the mirror. He dressed quickly, heading towards the kitchen with crossed fingers. Luckily for him, neither Pepper nor Rhodey were anywhere to be seen. Tony’s shoulders fell and he relaxed slightly. 

He hesitated for a moment between the liquor cabinet and the fridge, but shook his head, grabbing a bottle of water and an apple from the stainless steel fridge. Hair dripping onto his shoulders, Tony stepped into the elevator, sinking towards the garage. He knew he couldn’t invent anything revolutionary while tipsy, but it’d be nice to blow off some steam by playing around with some car motors rather than being plagued by Steve’s ghost up in his lab. The only reminder of Steve in the garage sat tucked away in a far corner, and Tony’s eyes stayed firmly away from the classic motorcycle hidden under a heavy tarp, fixing his sight on one of the Aston Martins. 

It was Rhodey who pulled him out from under the Vantage a few hours later, dressed in a casual, but sharp button down. Tony raised an eyebrow, glancing down at his grease stained tank top.

“What’s the occasion, platypus?” Tony asked, trying for a smirk that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Apology dinner,” Rhodey replied, straightening. “Come on. Pepper made ratatouille and it’s getting cold.”

Tony slid out fully, grabbing a dirty rag from a workbench cluttered with tools. He busied himself with the oil under his nails, trying to scrape the black from out of his nail beds. “Who’s apologizing, me or Pepper?”

“Both of you.” Tony gave Rhodey a look, which he responded with in kind. “Pepper’s sorry that she said some things she didn’t mean and you’re sorry that you’ve been pushing us all away when we’d be more than happy to help you through this. Isn’t that right, Tony?”

Tony’s gaze fell to his hands, tossing his rag to the side. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He grasped Rhodey’s hand and pulled himself up, following him up and out of the garage.

Dinner was awkward, to say the least. Pepper kept shooting Tony worried glances, and Rhodey kept sighing dramatically and giving Tony half veiled glares for not meeting Pepper’s eyes. The ratatouille was good, though Tony wished that Pepper had picked comfort food for an apology dish. Lasagna was much more of an “I’m sorry for calling you a selfish asshole” than a little tower of warm vegetables.

Tony laid in bed on top of the covers, freshly showered. He stared at the ceiling, hands clasped slightly below where the arc reactor once was. A documentary about penguins played in the background, the soft light of the TV illuminating Tony’s face. 

A soft buzz drew him out of thoughts, and Tony sat up. His gaze fell on his discarded work pants, slumped on the floor where he’d shed them an hour ago. He walked over, pulling the phone from one of the pockets. Sure enough, a text message sat unread in his inbox.

_ Oh _

Tony pursed his lips. 

**_Yeah._ **

He returned to his bed, perching on the edge. The red and white glow of the city reflected on his face as Tony turned the phone over in his hands a few times. This was it. This was the end of their very brief conversation. His stomach clenched at the unfairness of the whole situation. He missed Steve, that much he could admit. He missed him so much that it hurt to breathe sometimes. His anger at the star spangled idiot had somehow turned into a longing ache. It was this same feeling of longing that pushed Tony’s thumbs forward, sending out one more text.

**_You’re safe right?_ **

Tony knew that it had been a while since Steve, Natasha and Wilson had left Wakanda. He could have tracked them further if he’d wanted to, but he’d long since decided against it. Still, he had to know that they were alright. If not for their sake, then for his own. 

_ Yes. Don’t worry, we’re all safe.  _

Tony felt his shoulders sag with relief. One less thing to worry about. He placed his phone on the bedside table, running a hand through his hair. 

The penthouse was silent for a while. He was sure Pepper and Rhodey were fast asleep by now. A quick glance at the little alarm clock on his bedside table told him that he too should get to bed, but he felt more awake than ever, practically pouncing when the little phone buzzed once more.

_ Nat misses you. _

Tony rubbed his face, trying to come up with something. Shit, he missed them both so much. 

**_Tell her to send a bottle of hooch my way next time she can; her stash is running low._ **

With that text, he shut the phone off for good, slipping it into the nightside dresser. Toeing out of his socks, Tony slipped under the covers, pulling the duvet up to his chin. He turned away from the other side of the bed, the obvious loss too much to bear. With a sniffle, Tony shut his eyes, pictures of Steve following him into sleep.


	9. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification: Bolded italics is Tony, Italics is Steve :)

It was easy to fall back into their old routines of texting each other constantly. Too easy.

**_Is Wilson behaving himself?_ **

_As much as can be expected from him._

**_That’s not really saying much._ **

_Well, that’s Sam for you._

_How’s Pepper?_

**_An absolute nuisance. Constantly badgering me to stop this and do that. It’s quite exhausting._ **

_So...how many new pairs of shoes have you boight her this week, then?_

_**bought_

**_Seven._ **

**_Okay maybe nine._ **

**_She’s still running my company._ **

_And that’s good or bad news?_

**_Definitely good. The company would be in pieces without her. But enough about this side of the world. Has Natasha driven you insane yet?_ **

_No, that’s more Sam’s territory. Yesterday, he woke me up by blasting some obnoxious song directly into my ear at 6 in the morning. Sometimes, I curse the serum._

**_My father would have a fit if he heard you say that._ **

Tony’s thumb hit the delete key as soon as he finished the sentence.

**_You should put him in time-out. That’ll teach him a lesson._ **

_Like he could sit still for more than 15 minutes. Sometimes, I swear he’s worse than Clint._

**_How’s Nat doing? Clint kinda went MIA on all of us._ **

_She’s...well. She’s fine._

_She makes a mean stew, I’ve learnt._

**_Shit. Resorting to comfort food? Watch out, next thing you know she’ll be eating ice cream by the tub._ **

_...No comment._

**_Keep an eye out for her, will you?_ **

_I always do._

They didn’t talk about anything important, not really; both of them staying far from anything having to do with Siberia. Their first texts had been the only exception, and since then, their conversations had been strictly small talk. Steve had tried to bring it up, once, but it hadn’t ended very well. Tony had ignored him for five days, during which Steve had snuck furtive glances at the phone between missions. When Steve finally got a reply back, it’d been about which colour tie Tony should wear to his next board meeting. Suffice it to say, he learned his lesson after that.

_I think the thing I miss most about New York is that pizzeria down on Fifth._

( _And you_ ), though that remained unsaid. 

**_Oh you’ve got to try this sandwich shop the kid took me to the other day. It’s all the way in Queens, but the drive’s worth it._ **

_Kid?_

**_My intern. Which reminds me, I’m late._ **

_Oh, okay. Sorry to keep you._

_Stay safe, Tony._

**_I’m going to the lab, not into battle, Steve._ **

A few minutes later, Steve’s phone buzzed again.

**_You too._ **

Steve was getting eaten alive with worry about Tony. Although his texts seemed playful and teasing, they were superficial. His worry increased even more at any mention of alcohol, recalling the man’s past troubles with substance abuse. Knowing that he was most definitely the cause of the relapse felt like a blow to the gut. Steve had hurt Tony, and he wanted to apologize, but he just didn’t know how without making things worse or remembering the look of complete betrayal on Tony’s face. 

**_Funny, isn’t it?_ **

_What is, Tony?_

**_I haven’t heard anything from Thor or Bruce in ages. Almost a year now, no?_ **

_I-huh. Now that you mention it._

_Any word from Jane?_

**_Not a peep._ **

_You know, now that I mention it, I might not be the best guy to ask about that kind of stuff considering I haven’t seen you in months._

**_A little over six months._ **

_You’ve been counting?_

**_Can’t help it can I? Always have been and always will be a number nerd._ **

_I wasn’t complaining._

**_Good. You don’t get to, after everything._ **

_I know. God, I know, Tony._

_I’m sorry, you know that right? Call me old fashioned, but I don’t think texting really gets my message across when I tell you that, but I have to anyway._

**_I miss you, Steve_ **

**_I do want to see you, I really do. I just can’t. Not yet._ **

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a while, almost at a loss for words, before hitting send.

_I understand._

That night, Steve fell asleep to the sounds of Sam’s soft snoring from the room beside his, the phone pressed tightly to his chest and tears drying on his cheeks.


	10. Steve

The first thing Steve noticed was how loud it was. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, but the loud clanging was distantly familiar. There was another sound, but this one was more difficult to place. It was a high pitched whine that came and went, like the sound of something building charge. 

Steve picked himself off the ground, walking down the dimly lit corridor. Water dripped from somewhere, falling to the ground in sync to his footsteps. He emerged into a tall, cylindrical room, the ceiling a gaping hole, leading into nothing. Steve walked to the middle of the floor, looking up, his gaze travelling past all the broken railings and falling metal plates. He squinted, confused. Was that...space?

Steve's body lost all weight and he found himself suspended in the air, hundreds of miles above the Earth. His hands flew to his throat, but no air left his lungs. All he could do was float, and watch as he drifted further and further from his home. 

Metal fingers gripped his shoulder, and Steve spun to find the Iron Man suit looking at him, its inhuman eyes cold. His eyes drew down to the flickering light in its chest, a long, jagged cut bisecting the reactor. The suit’s fingers clenched tighter, transforming the ache in his shoulder into a shrieking burn. Steve tried to pry them off, but the joints held tight.

The suit’s faceplate flipped up, and Steve cried out wordlessly in horror as Tony’s face stared at him, cheeks frostbitten and blood matted to his forehead. He looked exhausted, purple bags scarring his face. Tony sighed, breath clouding in front of Steve, and looked down at his mangled armour.

“Well. They certainly didn’t advertise that on your posters,” he said, and when his eyes met Steve’s, they were just as lifeless as the suit’s. They were unforgiving. “You should have told me.”

Steve’s tears fell for lightyears. “I know. I know, Tony, and I’m so sorry. Please, I-”

Tony pulled him in, forearms cruel. “I loved you, once. All you had to do was be honest, but no,” he whispered. “Now look what you’ve done.”

With a shove, Steve was thrown out of Tony’s arms, his face fading but always in view. When he landed, Steve kept his eyes screwed shut, the cold creeping across his cheekbones. The ground underneath him was rough, almost splintering, and a light smell of the woods danced in the air. Someone was arguing, and Steve couldn’t bring himself to see who it was. In the distance, a tractor’s engine started.

When he opened his eyes, the splinters were gone, replaced by the smooth crunch of snow. Steve’s entire body went numb, recognising his surroundings. He was outside that corridor now, the clanging louder. Steve’s legs marched him forward without his permission, pulling him towards where he, Bucky and Tony spun around each other, captured in an unforgiving dance for all eternity. Steve threw punch after punch, Tony struggling to keep up. He watched as repulsors sliced Bucky’s arm, the same arm he’d lost 70 years ago on the train-

Wind howled in Steve’s ears as Bucky fell, screaming his name all the way down the ravine. 

Steve’s uniform was made of clean, pressed lines that would have made his mother proud. He could almost feel her running her hands across his shoulders, adjusting his hat. The band struck a note, and people spun circles around Steve, who was waiting for his partner to show up. The dancers left all through the night, the lights dimming as the clock spun forward. They faded, the band’s music drifting until only a final chord hung in the air, and still Steve was alone.

The light was almost too bright to bear, but the repulsors demanded attention, burning bright against his shield. Steve kicked and punched Tony like he was a bully in a back alley rather than the man he’d loved since they’d locked eyes on the helicarrier. His fingers were so cold he was surprised they were still attached to his body by the time he was gripping his shield, arms lifted above his head. He could only watch himself drive it down into Tony’s chest, the arc reactor sputtering.

Those dead eyes met his one final time, unblinking as blood dripped into his eyelashes. 

_“There’s no coming back from this.”_

Steve gasped for air, hand flying up to bat the intruder off of him. It was dark, but quiet except for the person’s wheeze of pain as Steve’s arm connected with a hard chest.

“Steve! Steve, it’s me! Snap out of it, man!” 

Steve looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. Where were his gloves? 

“Jesus Mary and Joseph, remind me to never do that again. You pack a punch, Steve, holy hell. Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving-”

The suit groaned and creaked and everything fell apart around Steve’s hands.

“-NAT! Steve, take a deep breath, you’re okay, everything’s fine-”

More footsteps. More people. Where was Tony?

“Soldier! Pull yourself together!” 

Steve’s spine straightened, and he stared blankly at the wall in front of him. A soft hand fell on his shoulder, and his entire body flinched away from it.

“Nat, maybe that’s not the best idea-”

“He needs to be reminded of where he is. I know what I’m doing.”

Steve’s face was taken between two warm palms, his head turned to face a woman with a stern expression and worried eyes. His brain rushed to place her, and he frowned. “It’s September 29, 2016. You’re in a safehouse with Natasha and Sam. We’re your teammates. We will not hurt you. Sam tried to wake you because we have a mission at 0600, and we need to brief and pack. Do you understand?”

Steve’s chest felt hollow, and he rubbed her knuckles across his sternum absently, hunching over slightly. He knew he should get up and help. He should listen to...Natasha, yes that was it. Years of army training screamed at him to get moving, but he felt encased in ice, unable to move.

Steve watched the door, listening intently as footsteps drew nearer, growing louder. The door opened, and Sam stuck his head in, an apprehensive look on his face. Steve looked on as Sam tiptoed around the motel room, pulling gear from Steve’s bureau and duffel bag. Natasha’s hands were grounding, her pointer fingers drawing circles in his shoulder blades. 

“Gloves, uniform, comms, transmitter, boots, socks…” Sam muttered under his breath, his voice clear as day to Steve’s ears. He stood, planting his hands on his hips. “Am I missing something?” he said, directing his question to Nat.

Natasha slid her hand off Steve’s shoulder, reaching behind him. Steve’s entire body clenched, and he watched as she tossed the flip phone at Sam, who caught it with a stunned expression on his face. Steve fingers ached for the phone, and he wished he could clutch it tight to his chest, where Tony belonged. That, or shove it back under all of his clothes to avoid the painful reminder that Tony didn’t love him anymore.

That thought snapped him out of his stupor, and Steve shook his head, shaking the icicles from his eyelashes. He rose, moves mechanical as he took the equipment from Sam. Almost as an afterthought, he snatched the phone from his hand, stuffing it in one of the bag’s compartments. With a huff, he shot a glare at Natasha. “Happy?” he asked.

She met his eyes head-on, accustomed to his Captain America is Very Much Pissed At You look. Sam, who wasn’t, flinched away a little. Natasha sighed softly, her expression unchanging. “You know the answer to that, Steve.”

Steve clenched his jaw, his nerves shot. “We leave in 10,” he snapped. “Hurry up.”

“Aye aye, Cap,” replied Sam quietly, stepping around Steve and into the hallway.

Steve heard Natasha rise from the bed, and stared at the wall as she walked in front of him. A few seconds of silence later, he dragged his eyes down to meet hers. “Mind on the mission, Rogers,” she reminded him, sending a small flare of anger shooting through him. He’d been nothing but focused ever since she’d reprimanded him that night after the museum, only letting himself break down in the privacy of his own room.

“Always, Romanov,” Steve shot back. Natasha raised an eyebrow, and her eyes screamed at him. But it was Natasha, so she just slunk towards the doorway, pausing with her hand on the jamb.

“We’ll talk about this later,” she said, not an order, but certainly not a question either. Her blonde hair hung beside her tense eyes, and Steve’s heart clenched when he realized that he was pushing his family away just as far as Tony was. 

The cold fist around his heart squeezed, reminding Steve why Sam and Natasha were best kept at arm’s length. As he looked at Natasha, the clanging filled his ears, screaming at him that the only people he could hurt were those that thought he cared. Steve squared his shoulders, shifting the weight on his back. “Sure,” he lied, tongue heavy with fibbs and half-truths.

Natasha slipped away after giving him one last long look, closing the door behind her, and Steve sunk onto the bed. It was much too soft, much too reminiscent of his old home, but he gave himself a second to ignore everything and just piece himself back together into this strange amalgamation of parts. 

He wasn’t whole anymore, and he knew that. Steve hadn’t been whole since he’d watched Bucky fall from the train, all those years ago. But then Tony had come along, sanding down his rough edges and filling the chinks in his armour that Steve had kept hidden for so long with love and joy. But now, with Tony gone, he felt worse than ever before. He felt like he was still trapped under the ice, conscious enough to watch his world crumble around him. He felt like he had nothing left to live for.

Twenty minutes later, Sam, Natasha and Steve rode in silence in one of Shuri’s self driving cars, the only noise the purr of the car’s motor. Natasha sat in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel to mimic driving, with Steve beside her, duffel bag pressed to his chest. Sam had griped about being put in the back, but after discovering how to convert the backseats into a semi-comfortable bed, he’d shut up and passed out. 

The dashboard buzzed once and T’Challa face appeared in the console, his stoic face taking up the screen above the radio. 

“Captain Rogers. Agent Romanov. I hope you’re both doing well,” he greeted. Steve nodded, and Natasha gave the king a small smile.

“We’re fine, T’Challa. How is everything where you are?” she replied, looking away from the road.

“Wakanda is excellent as always,” T’Challa said, smirking a little. “Barnes is still in cryo while our doctors conduct more research, but other than that, we are prosperous as always.”

Steve had tensed his shoulders without realising, and made an effort to relax them when he caught Natasha watching him. He forced a smile at T’Challa. “Thank you. That’s good to hear.”

“Is everything in place for the mission?” T’Challa continued. 

“Yes,” Natasha confirmed. “We’re on our way to the base now. I’ve got the bug Shuri sent, so you’ll get the info you need for a conviction. Why, is there anything else we need to know?”

T’Challa shook his head. “Remember to keep the target alive,” he warned.

“No guarantees, T’Challa. You know that.”

T’Challa sighed. “I know, Romanov. But this man needs to face justice, not just the barrel of your gun.” Something exploded behind T’Challa, and he startled, turning around to shout at a cackling Shuri. “I have to go,” he said, rising from his spot in front of the camera. “Best of luck.”

“Thank you, your highness,” said Nat, and the call went quiet.

They pulled up to a nondescript building a few minutes later, the car gliding to a stop and parking itself. Steve pulled his helmet out of his bag, slipping the black reinforced fabric over his head. It was different from his Cap helmet, this one designed more for stealth than protection. It had a chin strap and a mask, as well as lenses that blocked out Steve’s eyes and enhanced his sight even further with a blink. Natasha tied her hair back, elbowing Sam to wake him up. He rose with a start, clearing his throat and getting ready himself.

Steve shoved the duffle bag as far under his seat as it would go. He looked at it for a few seconds, collecting himself with his head between his knees. When he rose again, Sam was fiddling his gloves and Natasha was plucking short blonde hairs from her pants, but obviously trying not to look at him.

“Ready?” Steve said, breaking the silence. Sam and Nat looked up, both giving him curt nods. “Then let’s go.”

They slid out, walking through the unkempt grass to the back of the building, where ivy climbed the old brick. Natasha set a device at the base of the wall, and a ladder unfurled itself, reaching all the way up to the roof. “After you,” she offered, gesturing towards it.

Sam took the bait, scaling the ladder with Natasha on his heels. Steve went up last, and soon they were all three standing on the empty roof. Natasha collected the ladder as Steve scanned their surroundings, hands on his hips. They were in the middle of nowhere, with only farmlands as far as Steve could see. A red barn at least 3 miles away was the only other building, a tall wheat silo standing proud beside it. 

A soft thud drew Steve out of his thoughts and he looked over to find Sam kneeling over the open sky entrance. Steve walked over, crouching beside him. “Can you make anything out?” Sam asked him.

Steve leaned in, putting his ear into the open space. He could hear voices down below, and concentrated to pick them up. After a minute of listening, he looked up at Sam and Natasha. 

“Sounds like Giorelli’s meeting with the buyer now. We’ll wait two minutes for the money to change hands, and then we strike before either of them can leave the building,” he whispered. They nodded soberly and Steve continued to listen, easily distinguishing between Giorelli’s thick accent and the buyer’s monotone, electronic timber.

“It’s been a pleasure, madam,” said Giorelli, his voice slick and unpleasant.

“My men will be in contact soon,” replied the buyer. Steve gestured to Sam and Natasha, who had hooked themselves to harnesses so that they could safely drop down and ambush their targets. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Natasha eyeing his lack of harness pointedly, but he ignored her. He’d jumped down from higher spots without breaking anything. It’d be fine.

With a final count, Steve shook out his shields and took the plunge, dropping silently into the fray. He landed on his toes, absorbing the blow, and soon Natasha and Sam were right behind him, weapons at the ready.

“Put your weapons down and come quietly,” Steve commanded, squaring his shoulders. He surveyed the room, counting the goons on either side of the transaction. The buyer looked to be female, her face covered by a mask. Though he couldn’t see her face, she looked tense, her fingers obviously twitching for her weapon at her side. Behind her, nearly a dozen men and women dressed in tac vests had risen to their feet. They looked like your typical SHIELD agent, meaning that they looked to be quick on their feet and better at hand to hand then most would guess at first glance. 

“Giorelli, what’s the meaning of this?” the buyer barked, gesturing at Steve. 

Giorelli was a big man, and he sat on a chair like it was a throne. He followed the buyer’s hand, considering Nat, Sam and Steve as he puffed at his cigar. Though the buyer was a wild card, Steve knew that it was Giorelli who was the bigger enemy. He was cunning, and never went anywhere without his legion of massive bodyguards. Sure enough, men who looked like they survived on only red meat and chewed steroids for breakfast circled Steve’s team, who responded by shifting closer, pressing against each other’s backs. “I don’t know these people, Stella,” replied Giorelli. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it and then you can be along your merry way.” Giorelli flicked his hands and the men stepped closer, some of them cracking their knuckles.

“You really don’t want to do that,” Steve warned them, a strange rush flooding his blood. Sure, he got adrenaline rushes before battle, they all did, but this was different. Any trace of fear vanished, a cruel brutality taking its place. “We can handle this peacefully.”

Giorelli tapped his cigar into an ashtray, considering Steve. “You come into my place of work, try and order me to stop business and you expect me to just walk out nicely?” Giorelli chuckled. “I don’t think so. Joey? On with this, please. We have guests.”

Steve’s shields retracted in preparation as the biggest goon stepped forward. Joey threw a punch at Steve which he easily caught, much to his surprise. Steve twisted Joey’s fist back, listening for the sick crunch before delivering an uppercut to the goon’s jaw with his knee. One final blow to his head and Joey was down for the count, eyes glassy on the floor.

Steve’s cheeks twitched upward, his face pulling into a vicious grin. He shook his hands, calling his shields. “Who’s next?”

The fight was a blur of blood and fists, and Steve lost count how many near fatal blows he delivered, wary of his strength even as he cut down soldier after soldier. Sam and Natasha were on the ground with him, taking care of the buyer’s weaker backup. Steve’s chest heaved as he pounded his shields into the massive lackeys, spinning frequently to avoid blows to the back. That wasn’t to say they didn’t get any hits in. Steve had the breath knocked out of him once or twice, and he could feel a bruise blooming on his chest. But it took a lot to fell a super soldier, and the pile of tree size men at his feet was growing rapidly. 

He delivered one final blow to the man in front of him, kicking the unconscious body to the floor. His eyes landed on Giorelli, still seated in his chair. His eyes were narrowed, and as Steve strode purposefully towards him, wiping blood from his mouth, they flickered with fear. Steve shucked his shields, picking up the man by his collar and tugging him up to his face. He pulled a thin file drive from his pocket, waving it in front of Giorelli’s face. “Think you could do something for me?” he asked, grin crooked and a little crazed.

Giorelli swallowed audibly, his eyes hardening “Not a chance in hell,” he said, bringing two fingers to his lips and letting out an ear shrieking whistle. Steve heard the sound of a bullet leave a barrel and dove to the floor, dragging Giorelli down with him. 

“Sam, sniper,” Steve said into his comm, flipping Giorelli by his lapels onto his back. 

“On it,” came the reply. Steve kicked Giorelli’s kneecaps, leaving the man to wriggle in pain on the floor. He turned to survey the fight behind him, but was met instead with a familiar face.

“Batroc,” he said, surprised. Keeping his shields tucked away, he raised a fist, taunting the man. “ _Prêt pour une revanche_?” 

Confusion passed over Batroc quickly, likely not recognizing under the mask and beard, but it was gone as quickly as it’d arrived. Batroc raised his fists, and swung at Steve, who dodged. They danced, flipping agilely around each other as they traded blows. Batroc was a formidable opponent, that much Steve had learned during their brief stint on the Lemurian Star. Batroc took the offensive, backing Steve up into another section of the building. Steve took a punch to his side, and doubled over in pain. He regained his balance quickly, twisting his body to send a quick towards Batroc’s head. It connected, sending Batroc to the floor.

Steve heard the shot before he felt it, but with his attention on Batroc, he didn’t have time to dodge before a bullet found its mark in his right shoulder. Steve grunted in pain, his shoulder rocking back from the force of the impact. He tried to scan the floor for the shooter, but Batroc had already leaped back to his feet, forcing Steve’s attention back to him.

Steve favoured his left side as he fought Batroc, growing frustrated at how much dodging he had to do without the full use of his right arm. Batroc sunk low as Steve roundhoused kicked the space where he’d been. Batroc grabbed Steve’s leg, flipping him to the ground. Steve fell onto his injured shoulder, and he gasped as his vision darkened from the pain.

“Natasha, Sam, status,” he grunted out, rolling to avoid Batroc’s boot crushing his face in.

“Sam’s tying up Giorelli now and I’m just taking care of the few stragglers now,” Natasha replied, her breathing heavy. “Where are you?”

Steve rose to his feet, ducking Batroc’s blow before barreling into him. He drew out his shields, pressing them to Batroc’s throat. Batroc smirked, blood dripping down his forehead. “ _Je croyais que tu étais plus qu’un bouclier_ ,” he said.

“Not this time, buddy,” Steve replied, ramming the side of his shield into the man’s head. Batroc went limp, his eyes fluttering to a close. With a sigh, Steve rose to his feet, chest heaving. Tapping his ear, he said, “In another section of the building. Heading to meet you now.”

“Oh, I don’t think you are,” said an electronic voice, and Steve spun to find the buyer, mask affixed, with a gun pointed at him. She looked at ease, and Steve realized it had probably been her that had shot him earlier. “Move and I’ll shoot.”

Steve raised his bare hands slowly, and the woman jerked her gun in the direction of the floor. “Kneel,” she ordered, her voice smooth under the modulation. Steve obeyed, his mind calm as he followed her orders.

“You know, this is all very inconvenient for me,” the woman ranted. “I go through all this trouble to get to Giorelli and you and your merry band of vigilantes swoop in out of absolutely nowhere to try and stop me. It’s…well, it’s rude, quite honestly! All that hard work for nothing. Do you realize how difficult it is to get a meeting with Giorelli?” 

She gestured angrily with the gun as she spoke, and Steve eyed her movements, searching for an opening. “Not to mention how much money you just cost me. It was bad enough that you just carted off the best weapons dealer on this side of the continent, but then your friends had to go and plow through my bodyguards like that. Good help is hard to find, you know!” she exclaimed, pressing her palm against the forehead of her smooth mask.

A motor growled to their left, growing louder with every passing second. Steve glanced towards the brick wall, certain that this was the same wall they had scaled to get to the roof. Something rammed into the wall, making the building shake. 

“Steve?” Natasha said over the comm. “What was that? What’s going on?”

Steve’s finger twitched to his comm, and the buyer switched the safety off her gun. “Don’t move!” she growled, moving closer. “You move and I’ll shoot.” 

The wall shook again as what must have been a large vehicle of some sort hit it **.** The buyer glanced at the wall, noticing at the same time as Steve that large cracks had begun to form in the mortar. “Looks like my ride’s here,” she smirked, backing up at a jog to stand behind a stack of shipping crates. Steve braced for impact, unable to move due to the gun still trained on his forehead.

One final blow sent the bricks flying, and Steve grunted as one hit him on the temple, another smacking him painfully in the chest. Steve fell to the ground, coughing as dust flooded the space. The woman cackled, and Steve’s head throbbed at the sudden noise. He blinked blood out of his eyes, wiping it away with his left hand. Steve hurried to his feet, pulling out his shields to chase after the buyer. His ribs ached, and he already knew they were bruised, if not broken. He pushed through the pain, sprinting after the woman to intercept her before she could hop onto the massive, armoured truck.

“Jesus Christ, do you ever give up?” the woman snapped, pausing to level her gun at Steve. He dodged the first shot, but the second and third hit him in his stomach and leg, respectively. Steve grunted, stumbling.

The woman swung onto the truck, holding onto a rail above the passenger door. She tossed her gun to the side, shedding her mask. Long black hair flew into the wind, and a malicious sneer met Steve’s eyes. “It’s been nice knowing you,” she exclaimed gleefully, shouting over the truck’s motor. The truck began to reverse.

Her face shifted after a few seconds, eyes widening. “Wait!” cried the woman, pounding on the car window. “Stop!” The truck slowed. 

The woman pulled something from her pocket and brought it up to her face, staring at it longingly. She heaved a sigh, before pressing a button on the device. “What a waste of good product,” the buyer mused, tossing it towards Steve. “Book it!” she cried, and the truck sped off, her twisted laughter echoing behind them.

Panting, Steve looked down at the object at his feet. A blinking red light told Steve all he needed to know. 

“Nat. Sam,” Steve called, pressing his left hand to his ear. “Do you copy?”

“Yeah, Steve, what’s going on? We heard shots, and Nat-”

“There’s a bomb,” Steve interrupted. He picked up the device and stepped through the rubble, wincing at the pain in his leg.

Sam sucked in a breath and Nat began to protest. “Steve, don’t you dare. We’ll figure this out together!”

“There’s no time,” Steve replied, running as fast he could towards the forest a few kilometers from the building, his leg screaming with every step he took. “It’s one of Giorelli’s.”

“Steve, no, please-” Sam pleaded

Steve was nearly there, his entire body on fire. “Get as far as you can from the forest. Take Giorelli and the hostages with you.”

“Like hell I’m leaving you-”

“Nat!” Steve cried, stumbling towards the first cropping of trees. Pine needles brushed his shoulders, and the beeping sped up, growing more and more urgent. “Please, you need to get as far as you can.”

“Steve, I can’t lose you. _We_ can’t lose you,” sobbed Natasha, and Steve’s heart sunk against his will.

Winding up his arm, Steve launched the bomb as far as he could away from the building, watching it fly away from him. It wouldn’t be enough, but it might spare Nat and Sam. “Bombs always were my weakness,” he replied, trying for a light tone. His heart pulled, and Steve choked in a breath. “Tell Tony to save me a dance,” he gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Tell him yourself,” replied Natasha, her voice watery.

A cry echoed across the com as Steve spun, covering his face with his arms as the blast went off. 

Steve’s body flew through the air, fire and smoke cocooning him. The cold finally melted away, and Steve greeted death with a smile.


	11. Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI SO SORRY FOR LEAVING YOU HIGH AND DRY (and on a cliffhanger no less) FOR LIKE 6 MONTHS. More on our mysterious absence in the end notes since we don't want to keep you from reading this next chapter any longer.
> 
> Possible trigger warning (SPOILERS): Tony gets drunk and high and goes home with a man he thinks is Steve. The encounter is stopped before anything nefarious can unfurl (aka no sexy times), but we thought we'd let you know anyway, just in case. If you don't want to read any of this, stop at "The club was loud" (you can read the italicised bit in the middle though) and start again at "Tony woke up abruptly, head pounding". Have a happy reading!

When Tony returned to the penthouse, Peter’s suit clutched in his hand, he had a very intense urge to break something. 

_ “I just wanted to be like you.” _

A raging alcoholic? A train wreck? A narcissist? A disappointment? 

_ I wanted you to be better.  _

God, the heartbroken look on the kid’s face when Tony had taken his suit away ( _ “I’m nothing without the suit” _ ) had sent him spiraling. He’s seen that expression one too many times on Steve. 

Tony sunk onto the barstool, snatching the corkscrew and a bottle of aged red from the fridge without thinking twice. He really didn’t care anymore that the proper response to heartache wasn’t drowning yourself in alcohol. In fact, he believed it to be the perfect remedy and would make sure to contact Helen Cho about coming up with an alcohol based cure for self-deprecating, over-emotional man-children like him. He snorted at the idea. The kid’s suit a crumpled ball forgotten on the corner of the counter, Tony poured himself a generous glass of red wine. He was right to be hard on the kid. Less chance of Parker turning out to be like him. He sniffed, refilling his glass, half surprised to find his first one finished. When had that happened?

If only Howard could see him now.  _ Like father, like son.  _ He swallowed the thought bitterly and rose, wine abandoned. 

The sun had long since set, the whole of the island shrouded in a dusky blanket. But even in the darkness, building after tall building blinked up at Tony, people hard at work despite the hour. His own penthouse was still dark, the only light the slight glow of the wine fridge. He’d left the lights out on purpose, wanting to wallow in his misery, but now the quiet felt stifling. He resented the windows’ soundproofing, even though this high up, all the noise of the city was drowned out by the howling of the wind anyway. 

Tony scrubbed a hand across his face, pushing away from the bar to pace. He glared down at the floor. The only method he knew of that would burn off this kind of energy, the kind that bubbled below his skin like a hissing pit of lava, was to go down to his workshop and tinker for 30 plus hours. That or spar, but it wasn’t like he had a partner alone as he was in his ivory tower.

Tony laughed despite himself, cringing at how melancholy it sounded. He walked over to the couch, finger worrying at the crease between his eyebrows. The cushions held a thousand memories of teammates and friends, of movies and cheating at poker. Tony ran his thumb over a small burn mark, a remnant of when Clint had gotten a little too drunk and a little too close to an equally tanked Natasha. Her bite had just barely missed him, and they’d all laughed at him for a good ten minutes, ignoring his protests of it not being funny and him being “in mortal peril, guys, quit giggling!”. 

Swallowing hard, Tony drew his shoulders back. The memory of Nat came with another-the smell of dingy warehouses in terrible neighbourhoods, packed with booze and sin. She’d been the one to initiate their little ritual, pulling him without an explanation away from his workshop after he’d just been staring into the abyss for an hour. At first, it was a painful reminder of his pre-Afghanistan days, but whenever his mind strayed too far into that dark corner, she was always there to pull him right back out with a poke in the ribs or a comforting hand on his shoulder. Even after him and Steve had “finally gotten their shit together”, they’d continued club hopping, though Tony would now pull the hands creeping too close off with an apologetic smile rather than a flirty one.

Nat had always chosen the places they visited. He was pretty sure SHIELD had some kind of list or group chat where they shared dens of iniquity with don’t ask don’t tell style policies. They’d never gone to the same place twice and no paparazzi had ever met them at the back door, ready to splash their faces on the 9 o’clock news. He’d never asked for her black book and she’d never shared it, but he was a genius with an AI that tracked his every move so it wasn’t exactly difficult to find out the name and address of the first place she’d ever taken him to. He was in the garage in under two minutes, ignoring the dusty tasp in the corner as he peeled out of the tower.

The club was loud, a sharp contrast to the penthouse’s stifling quiet. Tony could feel each beat of the song in his chest, the thud of the bass heavy in his feet. Smushed between sweaty bodies swaying to a song about sex, drugs and hoes (the usual), Tony took a long drag of a blunt offered to him by a pretty blonde. Though she was definitely too young for him, he didn’t stop himself from tossing her a salacious wink, much to her amusement. Neon colours danced across the club goer’s cheekbones, illuminating sparkly eyeshadow and kiss bitten lips. Drinks were spilled, fights were broken apart, and laughter echoed in Tony’s ears. His pupils were blown wide as he watched people up on a stage in ripped cut-offs and shimmering shirts sway to the thready pulse of the bass from his spot on a black, velvet chair that he’d migrated to at some point. Time was but an illusion to him, his whole body blissfully numb. Thoughts muddled with booze, he couldn’t help the lazy smile that widened when a particularly handsome brunette asked him to join him on the floor. 

Sweaty tight fitting clothing clinging to his body uncomfortably, Tony closed his eyes, losing himself to the music. The room was stifling hot. Common sense abandoned back in his penthouse along with the half drunk bottle of Bordeaux, Tony couldn’t even make himself feel guilty about his behaviour. Here he was, somewhat high, a drink or two away from blacking out, not so innocently dancing with a man whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask for, in a club he hadn’t stepped in over five years. 

With every ridiculous spin, twist of his body, and feather like touch, the man would morph into Steve. Tony welcomed it, way past giving a shit about things like unhealthy coping mechanisms. The small details that separated Steve from this man didn’t seem to register with him; he couldn’t tell that the man was a few inches shorter than Steve, that his voice didn’t hold the hint of an old timey Brooklyn accent that Steve still held onto after all this time or that his handling of Tony was too rough to be Steve. The image of Steve pounded in his head, and he gasped, smiling at the vision.

_ The compound was quiet. Most of the Avengers had retreated to their beds after watching all three Shrek movies at Clint’s insistence. There had been no fights and no talk about missions; only light banter, mainly between Tony and Clint. Tony had nestled himself next to Steve, their legs pressed together, fingers occasionally brushing against each other. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything, though Natasha had had a knowing smirk on her face throughout the evening. _

_ Steve and Tony sat next to each other on the couch in silence, the screen left black in the wake of Shrek 3's credits. Tony shot a quick glance at Steve, then rose to his feet.  _

_ “What are you doing?” Steve asked, which Tony ignored as he moved the coffee table aside, shoving all the chip bags Clint and Thor had left on the floor into the corner.  _

_ “Tony, wait let me help y-” _

_ “JARVIS, cue up the triple S playlist,” Tony interrupted, straightening his posture and dusting leftover Cheeto dust from his hands. _

_ “Right away, sir” JARVIS chimed, his tone oddly amused as the start of  _ Laughing on the Outside  _ crackled to life, a crescendo of strings and woodwinds filling up the living room.  _

_ “Triple S?” Steve questioned. _

_ Tony grinned and did a little twirl that got Steve rolling his eyes at him, a smile playing on his lips. _

_ “Super Secret Soldier playlist. Painstakingly crafted by yours truly.” Holding out his hand, Tony tried to keep his face neutral. “May I have this dance?” he said, with a raised brow. _

_ “Tony…” Steve started. “I can’t dance- well I mean, I can, but it wasn’t- I forgot…yeah I can’t dance,” Steve stammered, face shuttering.  _

_ “Sure you can! It’s muscle memory, and I can teach you if you really have forgotten,” Tony said, eyes pleading despite the nonchalant look on his face.  _

_ Steve hesitated for a moment, worrying his lip. Something in Tony’s eyes must have convinced him because he sighed, giving his hand to Tony and let himself be pulled off the couch.  _

_ “I haven’t danced in…” Steve drifted off, gazing out the window at the twinkly night sky. _

_ “Well then, it’s your lucky day, since I am a particularly excellent dancer,” Tony grinned, pulling Steve closer.  _

_ “Is there anything you’re not good at?” Steve teased, breathless, cheeks tinged pink.  _

_ Tony snorted. “Being modest,” Tony winked, delighted at the startled laugh that came from Steve. Tony had a hard time battling the triumphant grin on his face.  _

_ They swayed to the music, Tony gazing at Steve like he held the answers to all the questions in the world while Steve’s eyes stayed glued to his feet, his movements stiff and unsure.  _

_ “Relax,” Tony said softly. Steve looked up from the floor, eyes meeting Tony’s. Tony swallowed thickly. He really hadn’t noticed just how blue Steve’s eyes were until just now. He slowly brought his hand up to Steve’s face, resting it tentatively on his cheek. Steve leaned his head into Tony’s hand, smiling as Tony swept the pad of his thumb against Steve’s skin, the hint of a five o’clock shadow rasping against his hand. He leaned in slightly, as if in a trance, and before Tony knew it, he was kissing Steve.  _

_ Steve froze. The song had finished a while ago, a crooning romantic ballad taking its place. _

_ Tony pulled away, eyes wide and heart pounding. “Steve, I’m so sorry. I totally misread that. I’ve overstepped. Let’s just pretend that never happened.” Tony chuckled humorlessly, guilt twisting his features as he looked away, not wanting to see the look of rejection on Steve’s face. _

_ A warm hand warped itself around the back of Tony’s neck, tugging him gently forward. Steve cupped Tony’s chin and pulled upwards so that he was forced to meet Steve’s soft eyes.  _

_ “Steve? I-”  _

_ Steve lowered his head and kissed Tony, shutting him up. Tony melted into him, reaching up and circling his arms around Steve’s neck. Steve smiled into the kiss, and Tony could’ve sworn his heart skipped a few beats.  _

_ “Oh…” Tony mumbled against Steve’s soft lips, fingers finding a home in his golden hair.  _

Tony did his best to ignore the warm tears that were quickly drying on his face as the man kissed him. He shut his eyes, his mind blissfully slipping to when Steve would hold him, from the lazy afternoons spent in bed to the light pecks he’d plant on Tony while he was working late in the lab. When Tony whispered, words slurred, “let’s go to your place,” and giggled, he hadn’t meant whatever sleezly neighbourhood he was now in, he’d meant the Compound. But this man was not Steve. This man was just another lonely man like Tony, in want of a warm body for the night. 

They stumbled into the nameless man’s home, tripping over the doormat, too preoccupied with attacking each other’s faces with meaningless kisses. The house was quiet. There was no one but them. Tony felt confused for a moment, the sheer wrongness of the situation washing over him. This wasn’t Steve’s place. Was this even Steve? The man kissed him again hungrily, so unlike Steve that Tony reeled for a moment before he was led him into the bedroom. As they crossed the threshold, thoughts began to slip away from him, his mind focused on the soft sheets below him and warm heat on his face. The insistent press of someone else’s body against his reminded him of all those years before he’d met Steve, when he’d gone through Maxim and Victoria Secret models like an addict on a binge. It was enough to make him pull back for a second, glancing around the room. 

“What?” he stuttered, the world swimming. “Steve?”

The man ( _ not Steve,  _ somewhere in the back of his head supplied) frowned. “What? No, I’m Charles. From the club, remember?” The man,  _ Charles,  _ pulled back, looking Tony over. “Hey man, are you alright? You seem kind of out of it.”

“Fine, I’m fine,” replied Tony, taking a halting step forward before his knees buckled. Charles caught him, grunting at the sudden weight ( _ Steve wouldn’t have grunted, Steve had the strength of _ -) and pulled him up.

“Listen, why don’t you take the couch? I’ll call you a cab in the morning,” said Charles, all kinds of concern and pity. That was the kicker: this random man had pity in his eyes for him, for  _ Tony Stark _ , the man who had everything. He was Iron Man, for fuck’s sake, he didn’t need  _ pity. _

Tony nodded, scrubbing a hand across his face angrily. “Sure, sure. Sounds great,” he bit out. Maybe he should be a bit nicer? “Thanks,” he tacked on. The man shot him a small smile in return, turning away and walking down a corridor, probably to get blankets. For Tony. Who was sleeping on the couch of his hook-up. Great. Just great. 

Tony sighed, looking around. A worn looking dark couch sat in front of an old TV, and Tony stumbled towards it, flopping face first into the cushions. Something dug into his hip. Tony shifted, digging around until he unearthed a remote, tossing it to the floor. His vision blurred, and sleep took him in its grasp, pulling him under.

Tony woke up abruptly, his head pounding. He pushed down the wave of panic and nausea that gripped him as he took in his surroundings, quickly realizing that he had no idea where he was. The first rays of the morning sun sifted through the dusty curtains and Tony blinked groggily at the light. Slowly, he sat up, looking around him. He shoved the thin blanket aside, the world spinning dangerously. He rubbed at his stiff neck, vowing to never crash on a couch again. With slow, sluggish movements, he stumbled his way over to the bathroom. 

Tony stared at himself in the dirty mirror. With chapped lips, bloodshot eyes and a gaunt face, he looked like one of those pictures they used to warn kids not to drink or do drugs. He turned on the faucet, letting it run for a while before splashing the cold water on his face. He was leaning against the sink, head bowed, eyes screwed shut in an effort to push down another wave of nausea and guilt when a piercing ringing noise echoed through the white tiled bathroom. Tony froze. The same shrill ringing noise, insistent as ever, echoed through the room, snapping him out of his stupor. Tony reached into his pocket.

It was the phone that was making all this racket. The phone was ringing. The flip phone was ringing. The  _ flip phone _ was  _ ringing. _

A string of colourful words spilled from his mouth, and Tony could practically feel Clint Fucking Barton’s nod of approval from wherever he was. Flipping the phone open with shaky hands, Tony picked up the call.

“Steve?” he whispered, heart creeping up his throat.

“Close, but no cigar.”

Water dripped from the tub’s leaky faucet, time stretching before slamming into Tony’s back. He leaned forward, resting his forearms against the sink. “Nat?”

“Yeah, Tony. It’s me,” she said, and Tony could picture her lying on a sofa in who knows where, ice cream in her lap with David Attenborough on a crappy TV in the background. She chuckled, her voice watery, and the image shattered.

“Oh, come on, Natasha. No need to cry,” Tony tried, decidedly not mentioning the distance between them was her decision.

“Tony, it’s not-I’m not,” Natasha drew in a sharp breath, letting it out with a shaky sigh. Tony straightened, frowning. It wasn’t like Natasha to get weepy over reunions. In fact, he’d only seen her cry once, that time Clint had been in the hospital for two weeks because he’d got a hit to the chest he hadn’t been healing right from. The dots started to connect in his mind, and his eyes widened.

“It’s Steve.”

The world flew out from Tony’s feet and his legs crumpled, his world once again rocked because of Steve goddamn Rogers.

“What happened?” he wheezed, picking himself up and shrugging the door open. Last night’s hookup stood in the tiny kitchen, and he turned when Tony barreled in. 

‘Work emergency’, Tony mouthed to him. The man-Charley?-seemed to understand, because he nodded and went back to pouring his cereal. For the first time in his life, Tony was glad that someone didn’t want his number, snatching his shoes and racing out of the apartment.

“We were stopping an exchange, and Steve got separated from us and he-”

“Natasha, his heart rate slowing,” a muffled voice in the background said, and Tony tensed.

“Is that Wilson?” he said, calling his suit from the tower as he raced down the crappy apartment building’s steps. “Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” he spat, shoving the glass door open and stepping onto the streat. A woman glared at him as she jogged past but he ignored her, wincing as he squinted into the sky for a familiar sight of red and gold.

Tony heard rustling on the other line, before Sam’s calming voice, unusually frantic, spoke. “Tony, I’m not going to mince words here. If I don’t get Steve to a hospital soon, he’s not going to make it.”

Tony pressed a fist to his mouth, keeping all the pained noises stuffed inside him. The armour landed in front of him, and he stepped in smoothly, letting it consume him while he collected himself. The faceplate flickered to life and Tony opened his eyes, ready to shove his feelings down while he put out yet another fire.

“I’m sending an evac helicopter right now and you three had better get your asses on that damn plane the second it touches down,” he ordered, flicking commands to Jarvis as he flew towards the tower. 

“Tony, what about Ross? He’s not just going to let us come home that easily, no matter what state Steve’s in,” Natasha protested, and Tony’s heart twisted in anger and longing at hearing her calling the Tower home.

“I’ll handle him. It’ll be fine,” Tony replied, lying through his teeth. “I’m sure he’d rather see Steve behind bars than...well. The cradle won’t fit in the copter, so Sam, you and the medics will have to keep Steve alive until Helen can get her hands on him.”

Sam was panting and grunting and Tony could envision him nodding on the other line as he compressed Steve’s chest. He shook his head, trying to rid the image of Steve’s face, pale and blood splattered, from his imagination. “Alright, Tony. We’ll see you soon.”

The call disconnected and Tony spent the rest of the flight in silence, quiet tears dripping down his face. By the time he touched down at Stark Tower, his face was dry, red eyes hidden behind tinted lenses and mouth pulled taunt as he raised his phone to his cheek, General Ross’ secure line ringing in his ear. 

An hour later, Tony paced as he waited for the jet’s arrival. Everyone was at their battle stations; Helen and her team in the medical wing and Tony and Pepper on the helipad. General Ross was downstairs with Rhodey, who was doing his very best to keep him from arresting Steve when he touched down. The wind rushed through Tony’s hair, the currents morphing into taunting whispers. His head pounded as voices, some that sounded like his own voice, like his father, and worst of all, like Steve, wormed his way into his ears, spewing vile thoughts that sent shivers down his spine.

_ Are you sure about this? What if it’s all a ploy? You let them in, mark your soft spots and then they go for the kill again, leaving you high and dry. After all, they’re not coming back because they want to, not because they’re ready to apologize or admit any faults. You’re just their last ditch resort, and don’t you forget it. Steve’s hurt, and it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t blown this whole thing out of proportion you’d still be on the couch trading kisses instead of stilted text messages. _

Tony gripped his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. Fuck, the damn texts. Ross was going to find out and haul him in too for not reporting their location to him the minute he’d found it (aka the minute they’d left Wakanda). Tony almost wanted to laugh at the irony of the last messages they’d sent. Guess there was no choice now whether they wanted to meet or not.

The wind picked up, the whispers howling. Steve’s voice shouted harsh words at him and Tony grimaced at the onslaught.  _ You mean nothing to me. You were a distraction, and look where that got me. This is all your fault. _ The message echoed, pounding as the wind swirled angrily. He stumbled backwards, hand gripping the ledge of the helipad. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, and Tony strained to focus his eyes as he slid to the floor, wind cool against his clammy skin.

It was his fault that Steve was hurt. His fault that he’d let him break his heart. His fault that Steve had hurt him. His fault that he hurt Steve. His fault.  _ His damn fault.  _

The air shifted, something brushing against Tony’s shoulder. He flinched, peeking his head up from his arms and his breath caught. Slowly, he brought his hand up, gently twirling a loose lock of blonde hair around his finger with a sad smile on his face. 

“You’re blonde now,” he choked out. 

“Hey, Tony,” Natasha said softly, mouth twisting ruefully. 

Tony took in a shuddering breath. The wind was calm once again, the whispers quieted. The helicopter was gone, but if Natasha was sitting beside him, that meant Steve had probably been taken in during Tony’s meltdown. Natasha hesitantly brushed a few stray tears from Tony’s face with her thumb, giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“You’re here,” he said, barely above a whisper. He wasn’t even sure if Natasha heard him. 

He felt her arms tentatively wrap around him. Tony froze for a moment before reaching out and clasping her in a tight hug. Tony buried his head in her neck, hot tears dampening her shirt. She smelt of copper and smoke and the reinforced material of her armour dug into Tony’s cheek, remnants of the battle she’d come from. He was reminded once again of her purpose here, and the thought of Steve so close to both him and death broke him. 

He sobbed into his shoulder, the familiar feelings of grief and guilt holding his heart in a vice. Natasha tightened her hold on Tony, resting her chin on top of his head and rocking them back and forth.

“I know, Tony. I know. It'll all be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so as I mentioned, if you're keeping up to date with this story as it's being published, you'll notice that our last update was oh...in May. We're so sorry about this, and we're going to try our very hardest to give you the conclusion we've planned ASAP. Thank you all so much for sticking through; I can't begin to tell you how much we appreciate all the kudos and the comments. Feel free to subscribe or bookmark this fic so you don't miss the last two chapters when they finally come out. Peace and love!


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